by Cready, Gwyn
She glanced over his shoulder at the yellow flapping flag, visible under the moon’s light. “What will your father think?”
“Let us pray he never discovers what I am doing. The shadow of treason already hangs over me.”
His words sent a chill through her. “But this isn’t treason.”
“Entering an enemy’s stronghold during a time of war while in possession of secret intelligence about the plans of my own country?”
“Well, when you say it like that . . .”
He gave her a weak smile, and she couldn’t bear it anymore. “Don’t go,” she said. “It’s too big a risk.”
“Ready, sir,” the ferryman called. Bridgewater’s horse flattened its ears.
“I haven’t a choice.” He tucked her head against his neck. “I do not wish to say good-bye, Panna, but I must.”
“I’ll come back,” she said. “I’ll come back if you wish it.”
He sighed and gazed across the water.
“What? What is it?” She tried to see into those sapphire eyes, but the night was so dark.
“I do wish it, Panna. I do. I want you to know that. No matter what happens, I want you to know it.”
She fell into his arms and rested her head against his warm, sturdy chest. He gave her a long, sad kiss.
The ferryman cleared his throat.
Bridgewater loosened his arms and took hold of her hand. “Good-bye.”
“Wait.” She pulled him closer to the shore. “There are things I can tell you. Things about Scotland and England. I can—”
“No.” Bridgewater shook his head. “Do not.”
“Why? They may help you. They may help you today with your grandfather. What’s the point of me being here otherwise?”
“There are things a man shouldn’t know.”
“But surely the knowledge—”
“That sort of knowledge is the devil’s work, Panna. I’m sorry. I know you want to help, but I must fight with everything I have regardless of the outcome. Fighting with everything I have is the only way I can live with myself.”
“But what if I told you that—”
“That’d we’d win? I don’t even know what ‘winning’ would mean anymore.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I will do what I think is right until I can’t anymore. That’s all I am capable of.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Good-bye, Panna.”
“Good-bye, Bridgewater. Until the next time.”
“Aye. Until then.”
He let go of her hand.
She fought the urge to cry and wrapped her arms around her waist. “I have your coat,” she called.
“Keep it.” He led the horse into the boat and the ferryman began to row.
The wind whipped the shirt tightly around Bridgewater’s chest and shoulders. Tendrils of his dark blond hair flapped across his face, and he raised his arm in a sorrowful farewell as the boat moved down the length of the dock.
She didn’t recognize the noise as a shot. But Bridgewater did, and he turned immediately in the direction of the sound.
“Get down!” he cried, and his horse whinnied in fear.
She fell to her knees, heart pounding, and crawled behind one of the dock’s wooden posts. How many shots could a gun fire in the eighteenth century? Of course, one shot was all it would take. Bridgewater had drawn his pistol and was scanning the banks behind her.
Panna felt exposed on every side. She had no idea where the shot had come from or if another would follow. She heard footfalls in the grass behind her. Two men with guns, cap brims low over their faces, walked toward her.
Another shot rang out, and the men ducked. Bridgewater had fired. “Panna! Come!”
She ran toward the end of the dock.
“Row!” Bridgewater yelled to the ferryman.
The oars were massive and the boat was moving faster than she was running. The men were back on their feet and pelting toward her. Bridgewater held out his arms, and she leapt, catching him by the neck and knocking him into the horse. They both fell.
He rolled to the side. “Stay down.”
The ferryman was rowing for all he was worth, putting ten feet between them and the dock with every pull.
Bridgewater grabbed a second pistol from his saddle bag and crouched in the stern, gaze fixed on the dock. The men had reached the end and were reloading.
“Get down!” she cried. He would be an easy shot.
“Who are they?” he wondered aloud.
They raised their guns. Bridgewater fired, and his shot illuminated the men’s faces for an instant. One man jerked but didn’t fall. The other man shot. Bridgewater’s horse rose on his hind legs and nearly swamped the boat.
“Steady, Romulus.”
The men onshore began to reload, but it was clear the boat would be far enough across the Solway Firth for their efforts to be futile.
Bridgewater helped Panna onto a seat. “Are you all right?” he asked the ferryman, who made a gruff noise of agreement. Then he gently ran his hands along Romulus’s withers and flanks, not only feeling for a wound but also to calm him. “You did well, my friend.”
“Who were they?” Panna cried.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”
They weren’t in uniform, but that didn’t mean anything: Bridgewater wasn’t in uniform, either. Nor could she tell if they were English or Scots. Of course, she probably couldn’t identify them even in broad daylight.
The men lifted their guns, and two more bursts of fire lit the night. The balls skittered over the water, landing twenty feet behind the boat and kicking up a fan of spray.
“If you think I’m doing this for fifteen pence, you’re a goddamned fool,” the ferryman said.
Bridgewater chuckled. “You shall have a crown, sir, to thank you for your braw rowing.”
Panna, whose pounding heart was just starting to slow down, said, “I’d ask if there is anyone who would like to shoot you, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer.”
“I wish . . .” He stopped.
“You wish what?”
“I wish I could be sure that I am the target.”
Could she be the target? She didn’t even know how to respond.
“I shall make it two crowns,” Bridgewater said to the ferryman, “if you can get us to Annan in under three-quarters of an hour. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”
TWENTY-THREE
The Road to Nunquam Castle, Annan, Scotland
“Do you really think those men might have been after me?”
Hector MacIver’s home stood at the end of a long rise, and Romulus was making his way up the road as if he’d traveled it a thousand times. Panna sat before Bridgewater in the saddle, self-consciously tucked against his lap.
“I don’t know. If someone has found out where you come from, it’s possible. But I don’t want you to worry, Panna. No one will hurt you. Not as long as I draw breath.”
The road turned, and to their right the outline of the Cumbrian hills was visible. She could see the tiny dots of watch fires burning along the ramparts of MacIver Castle.
Bridgewater gazed abstractedly up the road. What were the first words he would say to the man for whom he had carried such anger for so long?
“You’ve never been here?” she said.
“Never.”
“But surely you’ve been to Annan?” Her bottom was already throbbing from her short time in the saddle, and her inner thighs were beginning to tingle. In another world, those effects might have come with a postcoital bliss that would have made anything tolerable. Though she had to admit leaning against Bridgewater’s chest was nearly as nice. He smelled lightly of soap and sweat, and when he talked, the words rumbled through her hair, sending pleasant shivers down her spine.
“Annan, aye,” he said. “Many times. And I know my grandfather to see him, having watched him ride through town or spied him at a fair many times. But we’ve never spoken, and I’ve never been here.”
“Will he be glad to see you?”
Bridgewater’s hands tightened around the reins. “I don’t think so. Not with the request I’ll be delivering. And in any case I’m an outlander. So are you.”
“An ‘outlander’?”
“The borderlands are neatly divided. You’ve seen the wall. Either you’re a Scot or you’re not, and if you’re not, you’re an outlander, not to be trusted. Though, to be fair, the same is true for the English. Neither side sees any shades of gray. That is the essential problem.”
“But you are a Scot. Half Scot.”
He snorted. “I might as well be half Turk. If you cannot swear your allegiance, free and whole, especially if you will not also disavow the other half of your blood, you are worse than an outlander. You are an abomination. I am an abomination in both my countries.”
And in both his families. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “I hope that someday the things that make us different will not be as important as the things that make us the same.”
“You said your grandfather will not care for your request. I know it’s hard for anyone to change their mind, but once he hears—”
“Asking the clans to put down their weapons will be a personal embarrassment for him.”
“Why?”
“He considers himself to be a man who makes decisions with great care. If the clans have come together under his banner to attack Cumbria, reversing his orders will make him appear weak and erratic. And I’m sure if he’s made the decision to attack, he’s only done so after praying on the matter for many hours.”
The bitterness in Bridgewater’s words surprised her. “He is a devout man?”
“Tis his breath and blood. He wears his devotion like a courtesan wears her jewels, both as proof of his worthiness and an indication of what a rut with him will cost. I once saw him bring the charge of an English regiment to a full stop by ordering his clansman to fall into a circle and pray.”
“I should think you would approve.”
“I might,” he said with a growl, “if the same impulse hadn’t inspired him to tell my mother in the last letter he sent her that she had brought untold shame upon their family and that her child was an abomination.”
Panna winced. What would it be like for a ten- or fifteenyear-old boy to find such a letter among his mother’s possessions? She wanted to wrap her arms around him, tell him that he’d been a worthy child and had grown into an even worthier man, but she could tell by the rigidity of his posture that he would not appreciate her sympathy.
Instead, she laid her hands on his. “You lost so much. I cannot think how you survived it.”
For a moment, she was afraid even those words had offended him. But he squeezed her fingers and said in a voice ruffled with emotion, “You know what that means as much as anyone, I think.”
And she did. While she had the benefit of the support of family, the loss of Charlie had devastated her.
The press of his palm sent a warming vibration through her. She didn’t want him to let go. “One goes on because one has to. There’s no other choice.”
“Oh, there is always a choice,” he said, with more than a hint of sadness.
Panna thought of her brothers and nieces and nephews and of Marie, how she would worry. “It’s easier when you have people you can count on, who look out for you.”
“So I am discovering.”
A bubble of happiness rose through Panna’s chest. He relaxed his grip but left his hand on hers.
For several moments, neither said a word, but in the silence Panna could feel him wrestling with something, so she held her tongue.
“I have come to think of it as a campaign,” he said, and she knew without asking he meant more than the conflict with the Scots. “And I don’t mean in the sense of driving for a victory. Losing a husband as you have is a rushing, horrifying battle in which you witness the destruction of all hope as you slash vainly at a superior enemy. My life has been a campaign, I think. A campaign against the grinding sorrow and loneliness. Tis little in comparison to the blood you have seen spilled, but tis a wound that seems never to heal.”
He flicked the reins and made a clucking noise to the horse, evidently embarrassed at his admission.
“It’s not little. Your life has been torn apart as much as mine, if not more. We have a great saying in my time for what we’ve gone through: ‘It sucks.’”
He laughed. “Now that is a saying we do not have. Though I must admit, tis very descriptive.”
“And there’s another one: ‘Life is what’s ahead.’ And I didn’t know your mother, but I knew Charlie too well to think he wants anything for me but complete and utter happiness. That, I think, is the only gift worthy of those we’ve lost.”
Panna blinked. She’d heard it before many times over but had never found herself believing it—until now.
“Are all library keepers as wise as you?”
“There’s a famous movie about a library keeper—it doesn’t matter what movies are. Just think of them as books with pictures that move. It’s my absolute favorite. And in this movie a library keeper is in love with a man, but the idea scares her because she’s always been too busy doing the right thing to do the things that might make her happy. He tells her that if she keeps piling up tomorrows, all she’ll end up with is a lot of empty yesterdays.”
“Tell me, Panna, is that a fable for me or you?”
But she didn’t have a chance to answer, for they rounded another curve and Nunquam Castle—what could be seen of it in the dark—loomed before them. It was Elizabethan in style, with gables and bay widows, and the main part of the house was anchored on each side by ornate chimneys. It wasn’t truly a castle, lacking as it did ramparts, turrets, and towers. Nonetheless, it was of ample size to carry the name without question. The gatehouse that protected it was low and wide, like a face of a dog with its teeth bared. Gooseflesh ran across her arms. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s not a good idea. The clan chiefs are unlikely to be open to the arguments of an English army captain, especially one not speaking under the authority of his superior officers. They may think it’s a trick. I wouldn’t blame them. But they have to change their minds. They’ll be sending a thousand men to their deaths if they don’t. If I can convince my grandfather, the rest will follow.”
“And if you can’t?” Panna wondered exactly how amenable Bridgewater’s grandfather would be to the pleas of a child he once called “an abomination.”
“Then I’ll have to create a division in their ranks. Convince one or two. Get them to delay. If I can’t convince them, or if they doubt my intentions, they’ll either hang me themselves or turn me over to the English army, which will come to the same thing in the end.”
“It’s not too late to turn around,” she said. “No one will have ever known you were here.”
“Stop where you are,” a guard called from the gatehouse.
“So much for that idea,” Bridgewater said.
The guard and his companion lifted guns to their shoulders.
Panna drew in closer to Bridgewater. “Not very welcoming, are they?” she said under her breath.
“We’ll be fine so long as we don’t alarm them.”
“I suppose that means refraining from mentioning I come from the future?”
“If you would.” He brought Romulus to a halt and let himself off, then caught her arm. Even in the dark, she could see the steely glint in his eye. “If anything happens to me, you are to tell them you are the earl’s niece and demand to be taken to him. Do you understand? He’ll be furious, but they won’t hurt you for fear of bringing the full power of the English army down on them.”
“I will, I promise, but please, let’s not have it come to that.”
He offered her his hand. Dismounting, she discovered, was a tricky thing, especially when one was straddling a saddle sans underpants. He caught her by the waist and set her o
n the ground.
Then he approached the guards with his hands in the air. “I’m James Bridgewater,” he called. “I’m here to see my grandfather. Tis a personal matter.”
The men looked at one another. The larger of the two said, “No weapons.”
Bridgewater opened his coat. “I left my pistols on the horse.”
“What about her?”
Panna’s heel had caught in the cobbles, and she was hopping in a circle to try to loosen it.
“I think you can see she poses little threat.”
“Hey.”
The larger man nodded and took Romulus’s lead. The other escorted Bridgewater and Panna at gunpoint through the gatehouse to the massive door of the house. Panna’s legs felt as if they were made of rubber, and she shook the dust and leaves off her skirt, hoping to make a decent first impression. It was still the middle of the night, and she had no idea what proper castle etiquette might be for such a late arrival.
The man with the raised gun stepped back
Bridgewater lifted the boar’s-head knocker, and the sound of brass thumping against brass rang out three times in the night.
He gave her a forced smile. “Let us hope the guards’ hospitality was not a just a trick to allow them to shoot us while we wait here.”
After what seemed like forever, a tiny eye-level panel in the door opened. It immediately shut, and for an instant Panna thought Bridgewater had been rejected yet again. But then the large door swung open, revealing a stout woman in her seventies in a dressing gown and cap and holding a candle.
“Master Jamie!” She laid a hand over her heart and instantly started to cry.
Bridgewater froze. He gave Panna a confused look.
The woman shook her head, repeating, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”
Eventually, the shock on Bridgewater’s face dissolved into compassion if not recognition. He patted the woman’s arm tentatively, and she fell against his shoulder.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said, shoulders hitching. “Certainly not here. Oh, I wish your mother had lived to see this.”
Bridgewater extracted a handkerchief from his coat and handed it to her. He looked at Panna and shrugged.